


The Fear Underneath

by chartreuseshamrock



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuseshamrock/pseuds/chartreuseshamrock





	The Fear Underneath

 

They've prepared for this for ages. Not just tonight, but in the weeks before. John bought him so many dildos and vibrators and anal plugs, some of them positively monstrous in Sherlock's estimation, but all very much needed and very much wriggled and thrust inside him with love. 

 

And not just in the hours spent tonight - John's fervent tongue and fingers training his tiny hole to stretch - 

For months now Sherlock has topped John, John never once complains. He's used to it he says. In the army, when all they had time for was a quickie behind the mess tent, they couldn't wait for even the minimal prep that was needed. 

Daunting though it was at first, Sherlock eagerly takes to the challenge, and does so because John who always lets Sherlock take him, wanted just one time at least to take him. Sherlock could not refuse him certainly.

 

 

John frowns as he reaches for the lube. “Are you-sure, I mean absolutely sure, Sherlock?”

He bites his lip. John must know, he must be able to sense his fear. He’s tried his best to cover it, his mask 

John knows that he can probably sense his fear underneath all the seemingly self-confident talk, and he loves him for asking to make sure it's not something he'll regret later. But he does want it, and he has to let him know.

"I'm nervous, too. But I want it so much, Sherlock. I want _you_ , want to feel you. If you want to, that is. Only if you want to."

Sherlock smiles. He's so handsome that it takes John's breath away.

"I do," he says. "I want you. Have done so forever. And since yesterday, since experiencing you and me together, I can hardly stop thinking about it. You've opened the floodgates, John."

John smiles back at him and draws him down towards himself for another kiss.

"I don't mind if I drown," he says into his mouth.

Sherlock's low growl of approval goes through John's whole body, and he knows he can't wait another _second_.

"Lube," he mutters into their kiss and gestures towards the bedside table, and Sherlock, the marvel, opens the drawer and gets the required item without even glancing at what he's doing.

But then they have to break the kiss so that Sherlock can sit up to slick up his fingers, and it all becomes much more real all of a sudden. The other man feels the same – John can tell.

"Keep your eyes on me," Sherlock whispers as he closes the bottle and puts it aside, and John shivers because he's heard this before, a long time ago. "Please. I need to see you while I--- do this."

It sounds small and pleading and completely unlike the last time he used that line, and John's heart aches at the memory of losing him back then, and at the thought of maybe losing him again someday. He doesn't know what he'd do without him. 

"Please," Sherlock repeats and lies down beside him again. "John."

John fixes his gaze on him and takes his hand to entwine their fingers. He can feel Sherlock's pulse fluttering against his palm, or maybe it's his own. The slickness coating Sherlock's middle and index finger gets spread all over John's hand, but he doesn’t care.

"I want these inside of me," he tells the younger man and raises their hands to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. "I want _you_ inside of me."

"I'm--- scared," Sherlock breathes. "I'm sorry. I know I’m killing the mood."

John lightly bumps his forehead against Sherlock's before looking into his eyes again.

"We can stop, Sherlock. We don't have to do it like that if you don't---"

"I do," Sherlock interrupts him. "I--- I want to."

John squeezes his hand.

"What are you scared of most?" he asks softly.

The other man presses his lips together and blushes, but keeps looking at him.

"Doing something wrong. Hurting you. Not being able to--- please you."

His expression is so raw, so open right now that it gives John a twinge. He’s never seen his friend look like this before, not once in all those years. Not even when they touched each other for the first time. This is Sherlock with _all_ his walls down, and he's aware of the fact that he's the only person on this planet who’s ever seen him like this. John doesn’t know how to live up to the responsibility, so he just leans into him and kisses him again.

"Did you like what I did to you yesterday?" he asks him and nips at his bottom lip. He can't get enough of this sweet, pliant mouth.

"I did. Very much," Sherlock mumbles, tilting his head, inviting John in. "Couldn't you tell?"

John licks into the space between his teeth, and he shudders.

"I want to feel the same," John says lowly, breathing Sherlock's air. "I want to be close to you, closer than ever before."

He gently nibbles at Sherlock's upper lip, and Sherlock huffs and runs his thumb along the shell of his ear. John can feel him smile a little into their kiss.

"Come closer," John whispers and lifts his leg to put it over Sherlock's hip, drawing him against himself in the process, making their cocks come together in a silky slide of skin on skin. "Closer…"

Sherlock shivers. Their hands still clasping each other, John moves them down and between his buttocks, and when they're there, he opens his fingers and slowly, so very slowly, shows Sherlock the way. Sherlock moans and bucks against him. John's own fingers are slick with lube now, too, and as he presses Sherlock's fingertip against the place he wants it to go, his own slips past the outer rim of his opening along with it.

It's the most incredible feeling - it's all wet down there, and so hot, and the pressure of the barely-there intrusion is not uncomfortable in the slightest. It's divine, and he wants more. He _needs_ more.

" _Ngh_ ," Sherlock presses out, his breathing accelerating. 

John stops kissing him and pushes his face against the other man's neck to gently rub it with his beard, and Sherlock responds immediately, groaning under his breath and rutting against him with small, urgent thrusts.

" _Closer_ ," John repeats. "Please.  _Inside_ …"

Sherlock groans again, his hot breath hitting John's ear in erratic puffs. 

" _John_ ," he rasps.

Then he pushes  _in_.

John's hand goes slack, causing his finger to slip free, and he just melts against Sherlock, turning to liquid in his arms within the blink of an eye. Heat is spreading from his lower body into his arms and legs, making them tingle pleasantly. This is amazing. This is nothing he has to be afraid of. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sparks of pleasure flitting through his nerves, his cheek resting on Sherlock's upper arm, his mouth so close to his jugular that he can feel the other man's excitement pulse against his lips.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers. "Mmhhh…"

"Okay?" Sherlock asks, panting. "John…?"

He moves his finger in and out with small, careful movements, and John's legs begin to shake.

" _God_  yes," is all he manages to say before the sensation of _Sherlock_ being inside him overwhelms him again and he's reduced to wordless moans.

Slowly, Sherlock goes a little deeper, twisting his hand. It's burning, but it doesn't hurt - it's just  _fullness_  of a kind John has never felt before. He feels himself opening up to it, his body responding to the stimulation, welcoming it, and he just lies there, boneless, and lets it happen.

They don't talk for a while. Sherlock keeps moving his hand, adjusting his speed and rhythm according to John's responses, and even through the haze of arousal clouding his brain right now John can tell that he's  _read about this_ , indeed. He's timid at first, but becomes more and more confident the longer it lasts, and his precision leaves little to be desired. He crooks his finger the exactly right way to hit the good spots, and in the scarce clear moments between the increasingly frequent – and pleasurable – jolts of sensation zig-zagging through him, John wonders if this is beginner's luck or simply Sherlock being his usual high-functioning self.

"Please---  _nghhh_ … _Please_ don't delete this," he gasps after a particularly intense encounter between Sherlock's fingertip and what appears to be John's prostate. "It's really--- _oh!_ It's really _highly_  satisfactory…"

Sherlock hums, and John is glad to hear him sound more like his old self now – pleased with himself and clearly amused, with a slight undertone of  _Did you expect anything less?_ thrown in for good measure.

"More?" Sherlock then asks in a low, throaty voice that gives John goose bumps all over.

"Yes," he whispers. "Sher--- lock…"

Sherlock grins against his temple; he can sense him doing it even though he can’t see his face.

"I love it when you say my name," he rumbles and pulls out of John to circle his opening with the pad of his middle finger only. "Say it again…"

_My heart is going to burst_ , John thinks. _I can’t take anything more._

"Sher---" he starts, but then the fingers are back, two of them this time, and as they slide inside him with gentle, but determined pressure, the rest gets mangled into a slurry, growling "--- _lorghhh_ …"

He’s embarrassed by this lack of control over his own voice, but Sherlock's cock gives a violent twitch and he moans wantonly. He seems to like it. Once he’s in up to his knuckles, his hand resumes his rhythm, but now he spreads his fingers every two or three thrusts to stretch John's passage even further, and John's eyes roll back in his head behind his closed lids. He feels dizzy.

"John," Sherlock sighs. "You're beautiful…"

He nudges John's prostate with his fingertips, again and again, and begins to roll his hips against John's in the same slow, languid pace. There’s a lot of precome by now, and John can’t tell anymore if it’s Sherlock's or his own. Everything’s slick and warm there between them, and he bites Sherlock's neck and grunts against his sweaty skin, no longer caring about the sounds he's emitting.

They’re turning into one being, joint at the place where Sherlock's fingers keep entering John's body, but also at their middles, which have found each other in an ancient, basic, mindless rhythm, and John kisses and licks along every bit of his lover's skin he can reach, his neck, his shoulder, his jaw, in a desperate attempt to get closer  _still_.

It goes on forever, it seems, but John knows that his perception of time can't be trusted right now. He's existing entirely in the moment, and nothing else matters anymore.

" _John_ \--- I'll finish if--- oh,  _God_ …" Sherlock stops moving all of a sudden and uses his forearm to hold John down as well, breathing heavily. "Wait,  _wait_ …"

His fingers are still inside of John, but he's barely moving them now, and John's body screams out for more, more,  _now_.

" _Please_ ," he groans. "Don't--- stop…"

Sherlock kisses his temple, very tenderly, and the gentle touch causes his muscles to relax a little.

"John, no…" Sherlock says soothingly. "I don't want this to end here… I want to do it properly…"

Slowly, he pulls away and sits up so that John comes to rest halfway on his front, one of his legs still pulled up to give Sherlock access to his behind. He hides his face in Sherlock's pillow and takes a deep breath to calm himself. He knows Sherlock is right. He doesn't want this to end here, either.

"Relax, John…" Sherlock murmurs and shuffles around for a bit, probably looking for a comfortable position, and then he's touching John again, with both hands this time, massaging his buttocks with slow, deliberate movements.

"Sherlock…" John sighs.

"Relax…" Sherlock repeats, rumbling lowly, and John inhales his friend's scent, which is _everywhere_ in this room, and does.

He sinks into the mattress a little further, his hands holding on to the pillow now, and then Sherlock spreads him with his thumbs and slips both of them into him and _pulls_ him apart and open and

_oh_ ,

_God!_

John groans.

"You're _so_ beautiful like this," Sherlock whispers.

He keeps kneading John's cheeks and starts to thrust again, with both hands at the same time, and although his thumbs are too short to reach the really good spots, it's _perfect_. The sensations are coming in waves now, and John slips under and enjoys it, no longer able to think straight.

He can't tell how long he's lying there, lost in his pleasure, and he doesn't care.

Nothing has ever felt this good.

"Almost," he hears Sherlock mumble after a while, and the next thing he knows, the other man draws back and then puts his face where his hands used to be, and John's brain short-circuits.

It's wet. Hot. So slick. So good. Sherlock's breath. His tongue. His lips, his teeth, his purring moans. 

John thinks he'll faint. He thinks he'll come. He thinks Sherlock has spoilt him for the rest of the world.

It lasts forever. 

He's teetering on the edge, but Sherlock doesn't allow him to fall.

It's frustrating.

It's pure delight.

From now on, _nothing_ else will be good enough.

Then Sherlock is gone, and John whimpers and utters wordless protest at this loss, but a second later he hears Sherlock open the bottle of lube and slick himself up and stills again. Now. Now. _Sherlock._ His head is swimming. He lies there spread out in front of his friend, waiting, thrumming with want.

When Sherlock nudges his thigh and signals him to turn around, he complies willingly. He rolls onto his back and opens his legs for him, and Sherlock lies down on top of him, so slender, all his muscles quivering, and that's when John snaps out of his stupor and remembers that Sherlock has never done this before.

He pulls him closer and kisses his cheekbone.

"Come inside now," he then whispers against his ear and nips at his earlobe. "Please,  _now_ , Sherlock…"

Sherlock shivers; John can feel the wave go through him from head to toe. He holds on to his shoulders and closes his eyes, and Sherlock shifts a little to align himself, and then it all breaks into fragments again. He's touching John now, his tip is pressing against him, _into_ him, and his hardness feels very hot, and very present as it slowly slips inside, but it doesn't hurt.

_So good._

John's body is accommodating to the intrusion and stretches around it until Sherlock's all the way inside, and only when he's embedded up to the hilt does John come back to his senses and realises that the younger man is panting, sucking in frantic gulps of air, his voice catching in his throat on every exhale. He's trembling all over. John wraps his arms around his back.

"It's--- _okay_ , Sherlock…" he tells him breathlessly, his eyes still squeezed shut, and kisses his temple. "God, you feel--- _so_ good…"

He trails his hands down Sherlock's spine and then cups his buttocks to pull him even tighter against himself. He's so big, so very  _there_ , pushing John's body to its limits and yet completing it in a way he didn't expect, and somehow he regrets not trying this sooner, even though he knows that with any other person it wouldn't have been like this at all.

" _John_ ," Sherlock moans in a soft, very un-Sherlockian manner, and leans his forehead against John's. "Are you--- does it--- hurt?"

He pushes his knees into the mattress to get some leverage, which changes his angle ever so slightly, and the effect of this tiny movement is so monumental, so _incredibly_ good, that John wonders what it will feel like once they really get going.

He doesn’t want to wait to find out.

"No," he tells him. " _Ohhh_ … please… _move_ …"

They took their time preparing him, so he's already become familiar with the pulsing, burning sensation that’s by now spreading from his entrance into every fibre of his being, but when Sherlock begins to rock his hips, he's overwhelmed by what it does to him. It's not more than very careful, very shallow thrusting, but it's already so different from feeling his fingers move and probe; it's much more intense, and John slings his legs around Sherlock's hips to ground himself. He needs as much body contact as possible right now.

"Are you--- okay?" Sherlock asks again, breathlessly. " _Talk_ to me…"

John reckons he needs him to guide him, at least for now. He opens his eyes and raises his arms to hold the younger man's head and make him look at him, bucking up and into his next thrust.

"I’m--- _oh_ God… I’m going to be very--- _blunt_ with you now, Sh---Sherlock," he presses out, fighting through the spikes of pleasure compromising his speech centre. "I want you to--- to _fuck_ me now… _Oh_ \---okay? I _love_ your--- your cock inside me… Don’t--- hold back…"

He trails off, amazed by his own boldness – behold Captain John "Not Gay" Watson, begging to be shagged hard. But who cares. He keeps one hand in Sherlock's hair and puts the other on his hip to encourage his movements, digging his fingers into his flesh.

"Fuck me," he says again, and then, because it somehow feels right: "I love you."

Sherlock lets out a long, shaky breath and leans down to lick John's throat, and then he pulls out almost entirely and comes back with a smooth, controlled, absolutely fucking _perfect_ thrust.

" _Fuck_ ," John hisses and allows his lids to flutter shut again. "Yesss…"

Sherlock breathes an open-mouthed sigh against his Adam’s apple and does it again, harder this time, and then again, and again. John stops thinking. From far away, he hears himself moan in time with Sherlock's slow, but forceful rhythm, and also, a little more clearly, his friend's voice, his beautiful deep groans of effort and lust. He’s alight with pleasure, more than he's ever been before.

"Mh---hmmm… _Johnnn_ …" Sherlock rumbles into John's skin and then rubs his face against his beard like a huge, lazy cat.

It makes John tremble all over.

"Faster," he breathes. "I--- need---"

He breaks off when a particularly well-placed thrust presses into his prostate and makes his vision flicker and go black for a second.

Sherlock is amazing. John wants to tell him, but he can't find the words to do so. Coherence has left him long ago.

"Tell me," Sherlock pants back. "What--- do you--- need…?"

John feels his legs go tense around Sherlock's thighs. He wants to come so badly, but at the same time he wishes they could just stay like this forever.

"Harder," he begs through clenched teeth. "Ngghhh… _God!_ I need--- harder, _harder_ … _please_ …"

_God_ , he needs to come.

"Yes," Sherlock gasps and moans against his chin. " _John_."

He goes harder. Faster. _Faster_.

"Fuck," John whispers hoarsely, clinging to Sherlock's back with one hand, to his arse with the other. There's no air. No thought. Just this, this, _this_. "Oh Go- _od_ …"

Sherlock groans then, loudly, and suddenly changes his position on top of John to be able to suck at the side of his neck, and his stomach pushes against John's cock, taut with the effort of thrusting, and it feels so good that John can't help but sob in ecstasy.

"Yes!" he moans. " _Please!_ "

He's lost the ability to form sentences, so out of his mind that he can't tell Sherlock what he needs, but Sherlock understands, _bless him_ , and puts more of his weight on John to give him more friction, his teeth scraping the skin behind John's ear, his breath loud and irregular, his movements becoming more and more urgent.

"John," he gasps. "John, _John_ …"

John almost screams when he goes faster still, trapping his erection between their hot, sweat-slick bodies, and Sherlock lets out a low, drawn-out moan and puts his hand over his mouth.

"Ssh-sshhh…" he hisses.

John grunts and licks his palm, and Sherlock shudders so violently that the mattress ripples under them.

" _Nngghhh_ … I--- love--- _you_ …" he rasps into John's ear, his breath ragged. " _Oh_ \---"

He slams into John with another hard, desperate thrust and comes, stifling his relieved groan by biting down on John's neck hard enough to leave a bruise.

John feels it happen inside of himself, all of it – Sherlock's cock throbbing and becoming impossibly harder as he reaches his peak, his hot come spurting out of him and into his body, the shocks of ecstasy that shake him to the core.

This is what heaven feels like.

All through his orgasm, Sherlock's hips keep moving, keep grinding against his arse, and his stomach is still rubbing him _just right_ , and John listens to his friend's frantic gasps and nips at his palm, tasting salt and skin.

"Don't--- _stop_ ," he begs breathlessly.

It comes out muffled.

He's almost there.

Almost.

_Don't stop._

_Don't don't don't---_

" _John_ ," Sherlock suddenly breathes right into his ear. " _Come_ \--- my--- _love_ …" 

He removes his hand from John's lips to stroke it along his jaw instead, and it's a gesture so tender, so out of place amidst all their combined moaning and panting and their sweaty, exhausted chasing after John's climax that it sends him right over the edge.

He bites his lip to keep himself from shouting out when the sensation overwhelms him and crashes down on him in pulse after pulse of the sweetest release he's ever felt. Sherlock's arms are there, catching him, holding him as he falls into the abyss, and he's scared of losing himself and at the same time he feels so free, so light, and so absolutely happy that he doesn't care if he'll ever come back to solid ground again.

"Ye-esss…" Sherlock whispers as he rocks them back and forth with gentle, ever-slowing thrusts, his mouth on John's temple, his hands in his hair. "John, _John_ … so _lovely_ …"

He's rambling, still floating high himself, it seems, and John keeps his eyes closed and just feels him, smells him, listens to his mumbled words of praise.

After a while, Sherlock stops moving, and John with him. They lie there, legs entwined, arms slung around each other, catching their breath.

Everything's still. Peaceful. Warm.

The slick wetness between their stomachs and chests is beginning to cool down, leaving their skin sticking together everywhere. It should be uncomfortable, but John finds that he doesn't mind at all. Their hearts are beating against each other through so many layers of flesh and bone, synchronised, slowing down as tension dissolves and satisfaction settles in.

Sherlock looks up then, his eyes glassy, his cheeks flushed.

When he smiles, it's the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.

**Thursday, 11 th August 2016 – Sherlock**

They lie together in the afterglow, not speaking a word, not moving at all, just breathing, taking in each other's presence, just _being_ together, still as one, even though their physical connection broke when Sherlock slipped out of John's body as he softened, and Sherlock feels the memory of John's tight heat around himself, faint and throbbing, and knows he'll never forget this first time for as long as he lives.

He was so afraid. And then everything was so beautiful. _John_ was so beautiful.

Sherlock studies the texture of the ceiling without registering what he's seeing. He could fall asleep now, he thinks lazily. Sleep has never come easily to him, not even as a child, and after his absence from London and everything that followed it, nightmares regularly disrupted the few hours of rest his body claimed for itself when his exhaustion became too severe. But right now he feels so calm, so detached from the disturbing thoughts usually keeping him up and alert when everyone else is resting, that he could doze off just like that.

"Sherlock," John whispers and nestles himself even closer against his side. "I love you so much."

Sherlock bites his lip, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of affection washing over him, and kisses the crown of John's head, making the touch of his mouth linger and inhaling the essence of his lover – sweat, soap, _John_. Right now, he's sure that they'll be alright. They'll get through it all. They started today.

"I love you too, John," he answers lowly.

John hums. Sherlock can tell he's very tired.

"Do you want to get cleaned up?" he asks him.

Maybe that would be reasonable. They're sticking together everywhere they touch. 

" _Mmhhh_ … not yet…" comes the sleepy reply. "I just want to lie here with you for a bit…"

Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes. He's not squeamish when it comes to handling dead bodies, but he's always been anxious to remove any and all traces of bodily fluids of _living_ people (those of others and his own in equal measures) if they happened to come in contact with his skin. To his own surprise it doesn't bother him in the slightest now. He's covered in John's semen, can smell it everywhere, and his penis is still slick with lubricant and his own release, but he doesn't feel the urge to run to the bathroom and get rid of it. Quite the opposite – everything that used to disgust him in the past is now evidence of what John and he shared with each other, which makes it beautiful and intimate instead of repulsing and shameful. 

"Okay," he mumbles into John's hair.

They stay like that for long, blissful minutes, but then the baby monitor crackles and springs to life, and they hear Rosie cry and babble in her sleep.

"Nightmare," John mutters and stirs. "I'll go---"

"No," Sherlock interrupts him and holds him down with gentle force. "I'll go. You stay here and rest."

He carefully pulls himself into a sitting position and helps John to arrange the pillow under his head, already missing the weight of his lover's body draped halfway across his own.

" _Hmph_ … You sure?" John asks.

Sherlock smiles at him and his tousled state.

"Of course. It's no problem. Stay here."

He gets up and puts on his slippers and dressing gown, then makes his way upstairs.

When he enters John's room, Rosie is already awake, her eyes puffy from crying, her cheeks flushed. She's a pitiful sight, and Sherlock bends over her cot and puts his hand on her head to check her temperature. No fever. That's good.

"Dada!" Rosie wails. "Dada!"

"Sshhh…" Sherlock whispers. "Your dad is tired, little bee. You'll have to make do with me. Okay?"

Rosie sniffs and then cries out again, and Sherlock picks her up and wraps his arms around her and starts to walk around the room in slow circles, rocking her up and down and pressing his mouth against her temple to get her to calm down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so it is that now, tonight, he achingly, torturously, lowers himself onto John's steel-hard member, throbbing and flushed dark purple with need. John below him gorgeous, his brow and chest hair glistening with sweat as he refrains from taking control and hurting Sherlock, though incremental little thrusts still send shivers of delightful pain down Sherlock's spine

Sherlock digs his fingernails into John's broad pectorals as John in turn grips his hips to a bruising degree.

It hurts. Of course it does. Sherlock had known it would despite all their vigourous attention, but he finds 

 

I had forgotten how sweet the sting was. How consuming the pressure. When I was flush against his hips, I remained still for a moment, dropping my head and closing my eyes around the overwhelming pleasure. I could feel every inch of him, burning inside me, spreading through me.  
“Sherlock”, I said brokenly.  
“I-” He cut off with a low groan when I started moving. “Oh, John, I…”  
“Yes”, I whispered, because though neither of us knew how that sentence was going to end, I understood.  
I moved without haste, savouring the feeling, finding all the right angles and indulging in them, my head tipped back and my eyes closed. He lay still beneath me, his breathing growing ragged, choking in his throat. When I finally set up a slow, shallow rhythm, he practically whined.  
“John.” It was a plea, and I smiled breathlessly, glancing down to see his teeth digging into his lower lip.

 

I groaned with a combination of relief and agony at the pleasure.

 

  
“Come on”, I soothed him, sliding off and lying on my back, pulling him with me. He fumbled to line up his cock again, and I moaned when the pressure returned. “Come on, Sherlock.”  
When he started thrusting, he quickly lost control. He kept gasping my name, his pace quickening, and there was something so touching in that; that he remembered my name when he was out of his mind with desire. I could only answer with helpless whimpers. He climaxed with his mouth latched onto my throat, smothered sounds trying to escape him, and he had barely caught his breath again before his hand was on me.  
“Oh, please”, I heard myself whisper, the tension gathering quickly in my lower body when he stroked me. He kissed my gaping mouth, sucking my lip, and I was done for.


End file.
